


Chambers of the Heart and Mind

by GulJeri



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Gen, M/M, Memory Loss, PTSD, Post War, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-28 17:07:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11422389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GulJeri/pseuds/GulJeri
Summary: In nothing short of a miracle Corat Damar has survived his 'death' at the hands of the Jem'Hadar. He's been trying his best to survive by his instincts, hiding in the shadows, his memories gone and no knowledge that the world around him thinks that he is dead. When Garak finds him scavenging in his garden, Garak thinks that he is seeing a ghost--but no, this Damar is real, and alive, if damaged. If they work together, with a little help from doctor Kelas Parmak, perhaps they can restore a man, a hero, and their home in time. Eventual m/m with Garak/Damar.





	Chambers of the Heart and Mind

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Weyoun-wins for beta'ing some of this chapter.

_It was not Death, for I stood up,  
And all the Dead, lie down._

_-Emily Dickinson_

 

Dusty gray fingers gripped the edge of the crumbling wall and from beneath his hood he peered at the yard with its odd little piles of stacked stones, the garden with its sad looking plants struggling to grow, and the big house that had pieces missing—and the little shed. Damar, though he had no recollection of that name, had watched this man before. Sometimes Damar had seen him outside moving amongst the garden rows, kneeling to pluck away stubborn weeds, or moving from stone pile to stone pile in some sort of ritual. Sometimes he stacked more of them. Sometimes he moved them. It didn't make sense but it didn't matter. Damar was merely a scavenger and an opportunist waiting for his chance. He was hungry and needed food to ease the ache in his belly. He took a deep breath pulling the air through his mouth and nose and sorting through the scents. Many of them seemed familiar but he had no words to link to them.

 

The wind picked up and blew a little dust. Damar tugged at the hood of his cloak which had been taken from a dead man shortly after he had woken up, after the lights, after he had found himself in the street, confused, with only his instincts intact and screaming at him to hide himself away. He had snatched the hood and scrambled off, his heart pounding an odd rhythm that made him feel dizzy and ill.

 

All he had wanted was a dark place to hide.

 

Safety.

 

But eventually had needed to come out in order to eat.

 

Damar flexed his fingers and his long, jagged, claws scraped minutely at the stones. He flicked his tongue once. He had been watching long enough and he knew the man's routine well by now. The man left the shed every day at a certain time and walked the long path that lead down from the house, and at the end he met another person ,and they would talk and exchange things. Sometimes they would come back up the path together and go into the shed for awhile.

 

Either way this gave Damar time to raid the garden.

 

He slunk out from his hiding place and made his way towards the garden in something that was between a crouch and a crawl. There was not much in his head but his instincts, his craftiness, and his self-preservation. They were strong, and they had kept him alive this long.

 

Damar's bare feet pressed into the soft tilled soil of the garden. The earth there was looser, and it felt good beneath his feet—damp and cool—recently watered. He knelt in front of the first plant he encountered and began to tear off the thick leaves and shove them into his mouth. When he bit them they oozed with a sticky substance. They didn't taste particularly good but if he ate enough of them they would satisfy his hunger. The thirst was something else. It was hard to find water at all, and when he did find it, it was usually full of grit, and sometimes squirming bugs, but Damar always drank it anyway. Behind that thirst was another one. The water didn't satisfy it, and he could almost taste the memory of something on his tongue that would, but like most other things it had no name. It was just another strange breeze that floated through his mind without proper understanding.

 

Damar pulled more of the leaves and held them tightly in his shaking hands. He stuffed more into his mouth before he had even chewed and swallowed the first mouthful. He pushed some of them into a pocket that was sewn into the inside of the dead man's cloak. He swallowed the pulpy clump of leaves down and bit into another one and tore it savagely between his front teeth. The goopy innards spilled down his chin.

 

Suddenly he was aware of movement in the bushes and he spun, on alert, but before he could respond the figure that lived in the shed jumped out from the bushes.

 

“Bah!” Damar cried in surprise. He dropped the leaves and scrambled to his feet but the other man was on top of him so quickly. Strong hands gripped Damar by the neck and they began to roll around in the dirt and tussle. Damar clawed at the others face and blood slicked his fingertips.

 

They rolled around the garden breaking stems, smashing budding fruit, and kicking up clods of dirt and sprays of sand. Damar cried out when teeth found the unguarded skin of his throat.

 

“Out of my garden!” the other man cried, spitting blood, “out!”

 

Damar was yanked to his feet and his hood was swiped aside. He began to hiss lowly, a threatening rumble from deep in his belly. But the other man backed off and he was staring at Damar with his chin tilted up, looking down his nose with wide, round, eyes. His demeanor had changed entirely. Damar watched him spread his arms out, palms up, with rounded shoulders. Despite the damage his teeth had done to Damar's neck the other man seemed non-threatening now. Damar stopped hissing and growling but he remained alert and ready to fight or flee at any moment.

 

“You're going to be very ill in a few moments,” the one with the rounded eyes said.

 

“Huh?”

 

“You really should know better than to eat those leaves. They're poisonous.”

 

That would explain the churning feeling that was turning Damar's gut, and working up his throat. Damar stooped, bowed his head, and threw up great mucusy clumps of leaves that landed with wet splatters on the dry ground between his feet. He retched until his throat was raw and he felt dizzy from it.

 

A cool pouch was pushed into his hands.

 

“There's some water,” he heard the other man say, “drink slowly.”

 

When Damar was finished he held the empty water pouch protectively to his chest and looked up at the other man with suspicion. His fingers ghosted over the bite mark on his throat. The other man had bloody claw gouges down one side of his face. Damar kept his eyes trained on the man as he knelt and now they were eye-level. Damar didn't feel quite comfortable looking him in the eyes, and yet he dare not look away and risk allowing the other to take any kind of advantage over him.

 

“I need to know something important, Damar,” said the other.

 

Damar gave no reply.

The man held his hand out between them and Damar glanced down at it with a sneer.

 

After a few moments of scrutiny and hesitation Damar uncurled one hand from its grip around the water pouch and he placed it against the offered palm. The other man let out a small sigh that seemed like relief.

 

“Well... then you are real,” the man said.

 

“Of course I'm real,” Damar growled. His eyes flicked over the other. Damar noted that he wasn't only covered in dirt, but in something sticky, and smelly, too. The pile of rotting things that the man who lived in the shed sometimes tended too—that must have been why there was no smell of him in the garden, and why the ambush had been successful. He had covered his scent.

 

Damar curled his lip. Several more moments passed them in silence as Damar's gaze roamed over the face and took note of every minute detail. He felt that maybe he should know this face, or know a name that belonged to it, or maybe that he had just seen it before—but searching the empty spaces in his head did nothing to make any connection. The man was no more than a stranger and yet Damar felt compelled against his better judgment to ask him a question.

 

“Who are you?”

 

-x-

 

Garak flicked his tongue against his chapped lips. It certainly was Damar—he could not only see him, and touch him, but he could smell him too. Surely all of his senses could not betray him at once even if his mind did sometimes cast strange things before him—half dead children, and bits of corpses, and sometimes even this man collapsing into his arms with a curl of smoke rising from the charred hole in his tunic. The simple clothing had been in no way a formidable protection against the Jem'Hadar fire.

 

Garak had many questions—mainly how this could be—after all Damar had died in his arms. But he pushed those aside for later in favor of focusing on one thing at a time and first the question at hand.

 

“Elim Garak,” he said slowly, as if pronouncing his name to an outsider.

 

Garak watched Damar process the name, watched his eyes move over his face as he tried to link the name and the features, and noted the downward turn of Damar's lips as he grunted.

 

“I know you?” he asked.

 

Damar removed his hand from Garak's and rubbed it briefly against his lips wiping away some slime.

 

“Ah... as much as anyone can,” Garak answered.

 

Damar's brow ridges drew downwards subtly with confusion.

 

Garak kept his mouth open in a little 'o' as he watched Damar. Seeing him here and alive still seemed like an impossibility. His eyes flicked to Damar's chest but it was covered by the cloak he was wearing.

 

“I don't understand,” Damar said, his voice gruff.

 

“The sentiment is quite mutual,” Garak said.

 

He tipped his head minutely towards Damar.

 

“Why don't I fill that water pouch again? You must be quite thirsty,” Garak said.

 

Garak couldn't see much of Damar's figure since it was hidden away beneath the billowing cloak, but the gauntness of his face and the fact that he had caught Damar scrounging in his garden and eating leaves were more than enough to tell him that the man was struggling. Damar held the pouch out to Garak immediately.

 

“It was good water,” Damar said, “no squirming things in it.”

 

“Squirming things,” Garak mused. That certainly wasn't good if Damar had been drinking water that was contaminated with parasites. He would need to have Kelas check Damar over soon to see what sort of condition he was in. So far the list would likely consist of dehydration, malnutrition, parasitic infection, and memory loss.

 

Garak moved towards a vat that sat tucked up against the main house. It would collect rain water but the precious drops did not come often enough. Garak made trips to the river daily to collect water in buckets and carried it back in order to sustain himself. He had rigged a filtration system that was clever enough to remove most impurities from the water. He filled the pouch and returned it to Damar who was rubbing his middle with a look of displeasure crinkling his eyes curling the corners of his mouth.

 

“You'll be feeling the effects of those leaves for some time, I'm afraid,” Garak said, “but if you drink the water slowly enough, you might not be ill again.”

 

“It burns,” Damar said.

 

“Ah, of course it does, and it will burn when it comes out the other end of you too,” Garak said.

 

“Why are you growing things that are poisonous?” Damar asked. He was standing angled a bit away from Garak, and Garak recognized it a precaution for Damar's part. He took another sip of water though.

 

“Oh, the entire plant isn't poisonous—just the leaves. The roots are edible,” Garak explained, “sometimes you must scratch beneath the surface to find what will sustain you.”

 

Damar groaned and doubled over, one hand resting on his knee. He made more hacking noises but nothing came up.

 

Garak allowed Damar his space as he took careful sips of his water. Garak kept silent and considered the situation and what should be done. Most likely Cardassian authorities should be informed immediately that Damar was alive. Aside from it being the shock of a lifetime this meant much to Cardassia politically, and for her morale, which was still only limping along as rebuilding was tedious and the future seemed so uncertain. Garak clasped his hands together in front of him.

 

First, Kelas. If Garak had learned anything from his time in the Order it was that it was always best to assess ones situation before creating a plan of action. Kelas would be at the end of the path to meet him soon anyway. He always showed up around midday, the hottest time of day, and he and Garak would often sit in the shaded doorway of Garak's shed and converse as they sipped water. Kelas would always make sure that Garak ate something while he was there, and he would listen to Garak's lies about how much sleep he was getting, and depending on his mood Garak might allow the doctor to fuss at him briefly.

 

“Damar,” Garak said, “I would like for you to meet a dear friend of mine.”

 

Damar narrowed his eyes.

 

“No,” Damar said, “how can I trust you? You might might want to kill me and take my things.”

 

Garak pressed his lips together in a thin line. He hadn't expected this sort of stubbornness from Damar on such a minor request. But Damar's stand-offish behavior made sense for a man who seemed not to know much about the world around him. Garak imagined that his instincts were strong and he was relying on them for protection and survival even more so than the typical Cardassian would need to.

 

“If I wanted you dead, you would be already,” Garak said. The irony of saying this to a man who was believed by all in the Union to be dead did not go without noting by Garak and he couldn't help the little twist at corners of his lips— _a sick bit of humor, Elim_ , he thought. As for his trustworthiness in this situation—or in general—Garak could not speak to that in truth. He could slip on the mask of the tailor and manipulate the situation but Damar was on alert, in survival mode, and Garak did not think that even he had the skill to deceive him into trust under such circumstances.

 

“Kelas might know of something to help calm your stomach,” Garak added, and he pointed towards Damar's middle.

 

Damar glanced down to where his hand rested on his belly, then back up to Garak.

 

He nodded once.

 

“Alright,” he said.

 

“Why don't you put your hood up?” Garak suggested, “we don't want dear Kelas to fall over from shock.”

 

Damar gave him another confused look at his statement but he pulled his hood up over his head.

 

Garak walked the path from the shed with Damar at his heels. Kelas was already waiting at the end when they got there with a bag over his shoulder. His silver hair was pulled back into a messy braid and his glasses were dusty and smudged.

 

“Oh, Elim,” Kelas tipped himself up on his toes and craned his neck to glance over Garak's shoulder where Garak could feel Damar lurking behind him, almost hiding like a scared child ducking behind his mothers' skirt. “You have a friend today.”

 

“I have someone...” Garak tilted his head at the doctor, “very special today.”

 

The doctor's eyes grew a bit wider with what Garak recognized as inquisitiveness.

 

“I would like you to examine him, if he'll let you,” Garak continued.

 

“Of course, yes—is he showing signs of illness?” Kelas asked. He fell into step next to Garak as they made their way back up the path with the mysterious 'friend' following behind.

 

“I'd rather explain what I can of the situation after we're inside,” Garak said.

 

With all three of them in the shed it was a little crowded so Garak kept himself near the open door in order to keep his claustrophobia at bay. Of course it would help if he moved into the house properly and began to clear out the rubble but he had yet to make that step. The shed seemed safer, somehow, and admitting to that made Garak feel a bit ridiculous. After all he had grown up in the home—why should it feel so eerie now? Well. He knew the answers to those questions but now was not the time to mull over them.

 

Garak motioned towards a small cot that was pressed up against the far wall of the shed.

 

“Go on,” he said, speaking to Damar without using his name, “sit.”

 

Damar seemed unsure, perhaps about being in close quarters with two strangers, Garak though. His posture was very defensive and Garak thought he could hear him hissing lowly as a warning.

 

“It's okay... Kelas isn't going to hurt you. But if you'd rather stand, I'm sure the good doctor can still examine you.”

 

Kelas gave a little nod and tested taking a step further. Damar's hiss grew subtly louder. Kelas held his hands up and hunched his shoulders adopting a submissive stance. He bent at the knees to further make himself appear smaller. Garak watched them interact with interest. He thought that Kelas might just kneel down to take it even a step further. Damar was still hissing and he squared his shoulders and Garak was certain that his neck ridges were probably flared but with his hood up he couldn't see them. Kelas didn't kneel—he skipped over than and went for the most submissive gesture that Garak could think of. He had to applaud the doctor his desire to help his patients that he would make himself vulnerable just to make a patient feel at ease. Kelas lowered himself to the floor and laid down on his back leaving his belly open and exposed.

 

Damar moved forward and began to circle the doctor slowly, pausing now and then to bump him a bit with one dirty boot. Garak might have found it amusing if he didn't find it so sad—that he had known this man when he'd been a powerful leader and more like himself. But Cardassians were a strong and resilient people. Garak found more cynicism within himself than hope, but he felt a small shred of wiggling down deep, that maybe with time Damar could come back to that man he had been. And yet how could any of them return completely to the men and women they had once been?

 

Garak huffed a sigh and leaned in the door frame.

 

“Okay,” Damar said, “you can... get up.”

 

Kelas rose to his feet slowly and gave Damar a polite nod.

 

“Thank you,” the doctor said, “my name is Kelas. What's yours?”

 

Garak stepped in before Damar could answer.

 

“Ah! Our friend has some memory loss, I'm afraid,” Garak said, as he pushed himself off of the door frame and came nearer to the pair of them. He hovered while Kelas drew out a battered little hand machine that was used as a diagnostic tool. It wasn't too dissimilar from the type of tricorder that Julian would have used. Garak felt a pang at the thought of his old friend but he pushed it away.

 

“Oh, dear,” Kelas said, “that's a shame. I prefer to address my patients by name. At the old clinics in the larger cities...” Kelas trailed off and his coloring drained a bit. Garak suspected he was thinking about those cities and how they were reduced to ash, millions of Cardassian lives lost, innocents, children, citizens that the Dominion had wiped out without a care.

 

Kelas a took a deep breath. His hands were shaking as he held his machine.

 

“Doctors tended to refer to their patients by numerical designations,” Kelas finished, a flat tone to his voice, “I never quite liked that.”

 

The doctor gave his head a little shake and with a steadier hand now he held the device so Damar could see it.

 

“I'm just going to scan you with this. Do you know what it is?”

 

“No,” Damar said, and he shied away from it a bit.

 

“It won't hurt, dear,” Kelas said, the warmth coming back into his words, “it's so I can help you. You know... I do enjoy seeing my patients faces. If you'd feel comfortable enough to put your hood down... that might be nice.”

 

“No, I think our friend probably feels safer with his hood on, my dear,” Garak said, reaching to still Damar's hand at his side.

 

Kelas cast him a suspicious look, eyes narrowed behind the panes of his glasses, but he didn't press.

 

“Very well,” the doctor said.

 

He turned on his machine and it made a low humming noise as he scanned. Garak intended to let go of Damar's hand now that he'd intervened in the hood situation but Damar was gripping it so tightly that it was becoming painful. Garak realized he was scared—so he didn't grimace, or try to pull his hand free. He would put up with the grip until Damar felt secure enough to release it.

 

“Hmmm,” Kelas hummed, a long-clawed finger pressed to his lower lip as he surveyed the results on his tricorder. “I had hoped to do an old fashioned physical exam as well. But... if it would make you feel uncomfortable, it can wait. My tricorder will give me enough information to get started with, and in the meantime, you and I will just have to become friends.”

 

Garak noted Kelas' brief glance to Damar's tight knuckled grip, and then the doctor patted him gently on the bicep.

“You're quite malnourished, but that stands true for a great deal of the population left on Prime, I'm afraid,” Kelas said, “you could do with more water. Dehydration doesn't suit you either. But I think--” Kelas extended his hand towards Damar's belly and paused, “may I? I just want to feel your belly a bit. I'll try my best to be gentle.”

 

“Please do,” Garak said, “I imagine it's hurting him—he ingested some henta root leaves from my garden earlier—nothing deadly, I assure you.”

 

“And I should trust you in this?” the doctor shot Garak a lopsided grin.

 

“I have no reason to grow such plants in my garden at this time, so yes, you may rest assured that our friend will suffer no more than a sick stomach for his indiscretion.”

 

“Yes, I would say the effects of the henta leaf should be cleared up by tomorrow,” Kelas agreed.

 

“You can... touch,” Damar said, finally speaking up, “but careful. It hurts.”

 

“Of course, dear.”

 

Garak watched as Kelas so carefully examine Damar's belly, pressing gently through his clothing, a slight frown on his face.

 

“Yes, your stomach is a bit distended. There are parasites in there, and that just won't do. I'm afraid they've become increasingly common since so much of the water is contaminated and there aren't any filtering systems up and running any longer. I have something in my bag that will get rid of most of the common parasites we might contract by drinking non-potable water. We'll get to work on that first, and that should clear up much of that problem. Now... to continue my scan...”

 

Kelas frowned down at his machine. He smacked the side of it a time or two, then hissed in annoyance. Garak peeked over his shoulder. The screen was dark.

 

“I had it connected to the generator all night—it shouldn't be dead already!” the doctor muttered, “the charging port must be loose again. It'll run on delonium batteries as well but of course I can't get my hands on any of those.”

 

“If you leave it with me, I can mend the port for you, and wire it up to my generator for the night. Stop by come morning and I'll have it ready for you,” Garak suggested.

 

Kelas handed the machine over to Garak, and Garak tipped it onto its side and prodded at a little port opening.

 

“Well,” Kelas sighed, “I'm afraid we'll have to continue this examination in the morning since my machine has revolted against me, and you won't allow a physical exam.”

 

Kelas rummaged in his pack for a moment and pulled out a jar.

 

“I'll leave a scoop of this for you. Make some tea or rokassa juice for him in the morning, Elim, and put a pinch of this dried v'kalen root into it. That will clean out the parasites. I'd ask you to make it for him now but best to wait until he isn't feeling so ill from those leaves from your garden.”

Kelas moved towards Garak's work table and found a bit of paper upon which to leave the scoop of ground v'kalen root.

 

“Thank you, we—or at least I—do appreciate your care,” Garak said, touching Kelas at the elbow, and leading him towards the door.

 

“You appreciate it when it isn't directed towards you,” Kelas said, “are you eating enough, Elim? You're looking thinner than usual.”

 

“No one on Cardassia is eating enough these days,” Garak replied, “and you're most likely verging on skeletal beneath that loose clothing. So if you'll kindly keep your observations about my physique to yourself...”

 

Kelas placed his hands on the curves of his hips.

 

“This is my natural build, dear. You, on the other hand--”

 

“Good day, doctor,” Garak said, and left Kelas in the doorway with his mouth hanging open.

 

Garak had gotten a brief glance at the clouds when he'd seen Kelas to the door and he thought it looked like it might rain.

 

-x-

 

By evening it was raining properly. Damar sat as near to the open door as he could without the rain blowing in on him and he watched it fall and blur the growing shadows of evening. Since he was alone with this strange man he had pushed his hood back and he thought about stretching his neck and poking his head out the door so he could feel the rain on his face. He held one of his hands out and let the water puddle onto his palm.

 

He didn't feel very comfortable staying in close quarters with this stranger. He wanted to leave and hide somewhere safe by himself. But there was water here, and the stranger—Garak--had given him a bit of food too. Damar had eaten it too eagerly, ignoring Garak's words to take it slowly, and it had further upset his stomach from eating those bad leaves earlier and he'd been sick again. But still... food and water was survival and for some reason Garak seemed willing to share his things. Damar knew that he needed to stay out of necessity.

 

He pulled his hand out of the rain and slid his wet fingers against his cheek. The water was cool but it didn't last long and just absorbed into his skin and mixed with the dust on his face to create little pills of dirt that rolled beneath his fingertips and came off like tiny shed scales.

 

Nearby Garak had been working on that thing that the doctor had used to examine him. Damar was curious about it and had sat a distance away watching Garak work for awhile before he had come to sit near the doorway. Whatever Garak was doing made no sense to him. Not a lot did.

 

Garak began to hum a tune and Damar thought it seemed familiar. But any title or words he might attach to it didn't seem to exist. He considered asking Garak, but he kept quiet, and just listened to the tune and the patter of the rain on the roof of the shed.

 

“Maybe,” Garak began from his worktable, “we should think about something for dinner. Maybe you'll even listen to me and eat slowly this time. I'm not very hungry myself but I suppose I should have something. Perhaps some vegetable broth would do for us.”

 

Damar glanced briefly to Garak who was leaning back on his chair, which was only an overturned plastic drum, and he stretched his neck and back muscles. Damar watched intently as the muscles in the back of Garak's sturdy, sloping, neck worked and flexed. The back of his collar was fairly low too and he could see a span of skin there and the muscles working again as Garak rolled his shoulders. It seemed to Damar that this should have meant something, somehow, but it was nothing he could pinpoint.

 

“Broth,” he said, “yes.”

 

He wasn't quite sure what that was but he was hungry and ready to try eating something again despite the lingering nausea. At least the cramps that had held on throughout most of the day had began to subside.

 

“Alright,” Garak said, rising from his chair, “you just stay there and watch the rain, and I'll see what I can put together.”

 

Damar continued to alternate between watching Garak, and watching the rain. The clouds continued to gather and soon it was dark as Elim chopped vegetables and dropped them into a pot of water that sat on a single burner. For a moment the imagery of Garak preparing a meal overlapped with a young woman in a gray dress who was chopping vegetables as well. Damar felt smaller, somehow, as he watched her from his seat on the floor. She turned and chuckled at him.

 

“Hoping I'll drop a scrap?” she teased, “why don't you come help me, child.”

 

Damar blinked several times the woman vanished as though the rain had washed her away. Confused he swiveled his head quickly to the side to watch the rain again instead. Who was she? In the distnace along the horizon the glow of lightening began to flicker. Damar got to his feet and scrambled away from the door.

 

“Lights...” He backed up so quickly he ran right into Garak and it startled him. Flinging his arms out he knocked the pot from the burner and water and vegetable chunks splattered the floor and the pot fell with a sound that was left ringing in Damar's ears. His heart was pounding too fast.

 

“Lights? What do you mean, Damar? What's the matter!” Damar felt Garak's hand on his shoulder and he pulled away frantically from him.

 

The lightening flashed again, nearer this time, and followed by a roll of thunder. It lit the little shed and the lights strobed against the walls.

  
“No!” Damar cried.

 

An irrational fear was bubbling up inside of him and glancing frantically around the little space Damar couldn't see much place to hide. He began to claw at his face in desperation.

 

“They're going to hurt me,” Damar panted. He swept one hand out and swatted at the shadows with a growl. They were morphing into shapes, humanoid shapes, with reptilian features that were not Cardassian, broad shoulders, big hands, carrying some sort of weapons. The thudding of his heart began to feel erratic and he was getting dizzy. The room was tilting. Damar dropped to his knees, clutching his chest.

 

The lights flashed again, and again, and again.

 

-x-

 

Damar had crawled beneath the cot and there he lay clutching his chest and trembling. Garak knelt down beside him.

 

“Damar, it's only a storm, I don't understand...” Garak reached for Damar's hand but Damar pulled it away and tore at his hooded cloak.

 

“Here, here,” he said, opening the cloak. There beneath it was the tunic he had worn the night that Garak had held him as he died. The burn holes were still there. “The lights...”

 

“Oh, oh--” Garak understood now. He pressed his hand to Damar's chest. The charred fabric was rough beneath his palms, and he could feel the twisted scarring beneath, and the troubling irregular heartbeat pounding away. Damar's eyes rolled.

 

“Keep... keep fighting... Elim...”

 

Damar gasped.

 

“Oh, Damar—Corat...” Garak thought about pulling him out from beneath the cot, holding him, but that didn't seem like the right course of action, nor one that would come to him naturally. Damar was spooked, beyond spooked; he was having a flashback to the night of his death and he seemed convinced that the lightening was the fire of Jem'Hadar weapons. His physical responses were troubling too. Garak needed to get him calmed down and as quickly as possible.

 

Garak rose to his feet and hurried across the shed and he closed the door. The shed became much darker and Garak's chest constricted the way it made him feel closed in. _Control yourself, Elim,_ he told himself. He needed to block the lights and that would mean working through his own claustrophobia. Garak turned on a lamp that he had wired to the generator for working, and busied himself hanging blankets to cover the two small windows in the shed.

 

By the time he was finished there was only the glow of the lamp throwing a small, soft, circle of light into the room. The walls felt impossibly close and his hands were trembling.

 

_Steady, Elim._

 

He crept towards the cot and got down on his hands and knees. With his own claustrophobia edging up around him, it made him cringe and almost choke to see Damar wedged into such a tight space. Garak pressed his palm to Damar's chest. He kept it there until the pounding subsided and the rhythm seemed to grow more steady again. Garak sighed with relief, turned, and slumped against the cot.

 

He wasn't sure how he would get through the night in the small space in the dark but at least Damar had calmed. He didn't bother asking Damar to come out, didn't speak to him for the rest of the night, didn't bother to try and make them them some food in the lamplight. Garak climbed onto the cot and faced the direction of the door and tried his best to imagine that it was open, that he could see the rain falling, but he couldn't fool himself into such a fantasy.

 

Eventually he could hear Damar snoring beneath him, still tucked away beneath the cot, and it seemed almost funny to him that Damar should find safety in the small, dark space, and Garak found a fear that clawed at his throat and pressed down on his lungs.

 

“We make quite the pair,” Garak said tot he darkness, and to Damar's gentle snoring, “if only we had a bit of kanar, I think we'd both feel much better right now.”

 

Garak fell fitfully in and out of sleep that night that was haunted by various dead faces—Ziyal, Tain, Mila, Damar—countless others. Sometimes the thunder from the storm crept into his dreams and it turned into the sound of Breen and Jem'Hadar ships leveling entire Cardassian cities. Sometimes Garak was trapped beneath all the dead bodies, millions and millions of them, but then his dream state reminded him that there _were no bodies_. There was only ash that hung in the air, stuck to the skin, and clothing, clogged the nose, and tasted bitter and vile on the tongue.

 

When morning came Garak felt sick.

 

Damar had crawled out from under the cot and he was sitting on the floor, a shadowed figure in the lamplight, eating a hunk of dirty vegetable.

 

Garak sat up slowly and once he was hunched over his knees on the side of the bed he rubbed briefly at his temple. A headache that seemed like the type to last for days was roaring behind his orbital ridges.

 

“Good morning, Damar,” Garak said, “and welcome to the new Cardassia.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
